


lord, reign o'er me

by RiverKings



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Champagne Ejaculation, Explicit Language, Lord Stanley - Freeform, M/M, Man on Metal, Metal kink, Metal-on-Man intimacy, Multi, Other, Trophy Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:23:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7579315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverKings/pseuds/RiverKings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sorry. I know I shouldn't bother you with my troubles. You're stressed enough as it is, eh? The whole team is, what with the chase for the c-c-Cup and all—"</p><p>Sidney gulped back a moan. Each stuttering 'C' cut harshly through the air and struck him like bullets, sending blood flowing down his gratuitous, thick curves and straight to his growing mini-Sidney. </p><p>Sid knew he needed to be wary when he was in this state. The blood cells in his brain had lost some players and now his dick was on the powerplay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lord, reign o'er me

**Author's Note:**

> This is two parts for the time being, but I'll probably end up combining the two chapters when I finished the second.
> 
> Happy reading! Read and review, please :)

A year measured in rings.

The ringing _chink_ of skates, the ring in Sidney's ears as he stepped onto the ice. The endless circles, unbroken, back and forth, back and forth as he was looped around the country ( _countries_ whatever f*ck canada) like he did across the rink. Carving figure eights in the frozen arena to match the infinite loops the Penguins' private plane flew over and over agin, tired and wrung* out.

But the only ring (or rather— _rings_ ), Sidney longed for was absent in each one of these daily duties. Did he yearn for the silver ring of a wedding band around his finger?

No.

In his dreams Sid saw it. A figure formed by four dense, thick, leaden rings, veiny with the names of its past captors. Sitting atop this mountain of metal was a cup, firm and curved and grooved in all the right places. In these dreams he caught only glimpses of the coveted object—a flash of silver here, a glitter of metal there. The visions were never enough to sate his fiery want. The shadowy beacon was never close enough to touch, to see, to taste.

Soon, everything Sidney saw reminded him of his dream lover. Even the shiny glint off his knife as it scraped peanut better across his sandwich bread whiter than a fresh Canuck snow was enough to send exorbitant amounts of cum shooting forth from his hockey stick down under _*_. 

 

* * *

 

Though entire team was quick to notice something was up, Pascal Dupuis was the first to bring the issue to light.

"Sídníx?" The ancient, bedraggled retiree called after his captain one day after practice. Sid pretended not to notice, but his quickened pace belied his unease. "Çídní, mon homme, sometíng eez boséring yeux, non?"

Sidney had always been a sucker Pascal, what with that sexy French-Canadian drawl heavier than the collective mass of his bountiful eyelashes.

"Yeah, something _is_ bothering me, Duper. I've been havin' strange dreams, dontcha know?" The brunette lifted his gaze from up from the floor of the CONSOL Engery Center to meet the dense bush of eyelashes where Duper's eyes should have been.

"Sorry. I know I shouldn't bother you with my troubles. You're stressed enough as it is, eh? The whole team is, what with the chase for the c-c-Cup and all—"

Sidney gulped back a moan. Each stuttering _'_ _C'_  cut harshly through the air and struck him like bullets, sending blood flowing down his thick curves and straight to his growing mini-Sidney. 

Sid knew he needed to be wary when he was in this state. The blood cells in his brain had lost some players and now his dick was on the powerplay.

"Mon dieu, Çíd!" The older man ran to close the gap between them, stretching out his toned arms to catch Sidney as he collapsed toward the floor of the CONSOL Energy Center. "Wake up Sídní, wake up Sídní! Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?"

Pascal slapped his teammate multiple times across his plush cheek, trying to keep himself focused and ignore the soft—dare he say erotic—ripple of flesh that his hand sent across Sid's young, supple face.

"Medíc! I need un medíc!"

The young captain snapped back into consciousness. His teammate watched him run a shaky hand through his dark hair, feigning normalcy.

"No, Duper. I'm alright, I swear." It was an obvious lie, but Sid's tone was enough to shut Duper up. He knew better than to go prodding at Sidney, but that still didn't stop the single tear that slid its way along his burly lower lashes, slow with sadness and languid as a drop of rich, delicious maple syrup.

Pascal hobbled away from his captain on his creaky, decrepit, 37-year-old legs, pausing to glance over his shoulder before rounding the corner.

 

* * *

 

By the time Game 6 of the series was upon them, Sidney was so nervous it seemed that every cell in his voluptuous body was vibrating. He couldn't sit still—each press conference sent his knee bouncing and his mind reeling, and each practice left him awake, not tired. On edge, not at ease. PR played his media fumbles on exhaustion, but the rest of the team knew their captain too well to let Sid's jitters go unnoticed.

It was more than blatantly obvious: Sid wanted the Cup. 

 _Needed_ the Cup.

Road games were painful reminders of his lust. Sid's moans had oft awoken the whole team throughout the season, and the erratic beating of hand-against-dick was unmistakable, even through layers of plaster and gaudy hotel wallpaper.The audibly groaned fantasies shocked even the most French of the French-Canadians on the team; Sullivan noted Flower's absence at practice one day after a particularly impassioned night on the road. He couldn't blame the poor soul-patched goal tender as he mulled over the screams that still haunted his memory.

 

 

 

 

 

> _You're so cold... So cold and hard for me..._
> 
> _No, I know... Sorry, Sir. I'm sorry... I meant..._
> 
> _I'm yours. I'm for you and only you. I belong to_ you _, Sir._ _I'm so hard for you, Lord Stanley. Oh fuck, oh_ please _Lord Stanley... You feel so good against me... I could sit like this for hours, pressed still against you, just for you._
> 
> _I-I.... ughh, Stanley, I'm so hard it hurts... I'm leaking, Sir... I'm gonna cum if you don't let me move... I wanna feel the grooves etched in you, I wanna fill you up, feel you crushing me, holding me down... I'll do anything, Lord,_ _please..._ please.... please oh FUCK

 

(Management had decided to withhold Sidney from the All Star game, fearing for both Stanley's and his own personal wellbeing.)

In the locker room before the big game, Fleury approached Sid gingerly.

"Allo, mon Captain!" His cheery tone wrung out harshly. "Zis will be eazy game, _non_? What wis zees nasty California beach bum fuckérs, _non_? Look at zis Joe Thorton, he look like shitty mozairfucking homeless man wis zat beard. He look like starving meth-head man in parking lot, _non_? He ask you for the spare change, _non_? That disgusting slob and his bitch Marleau! You know Marleau, _ouais_? Zat old never-was wis the eyebrows? What iz he, zat idíot! He look so sad all ze time! Boo hoo hoo, look at sad little bitch Marleau! He iz in pain when he smiles, _non_? Why iz he so sad? He look like constipated crying man, _non_? Trying to shit out zat fucking stick up his ass! And zat fucking rat faced little bitch Couture, _oh hon hon_ *, I would _love_  to get my hands on heez sorry ass and—"

Flower was silenced by Sidney, who glared up at him. His baleful brown eyes somehow seemed darker under the too-bright florescent lights of the away-team locker room. The young captain took a swift but generous sniff with his spacious nostrils and stood from where he'd been sitting in his stall.

"This is no time for trash talking, Flower, you inconsiderate, soul-patched little cartoon of a man." The goalie stepped back, flinching at Sid's cold tone. "The _Cup_ is on the line."

Flower stared at Sid, bewildered.

"Ouais, _winning_ the Cup is on the line," Flower warned, slinking away to rejoin the rest of the team.  _Not_ fucking  _the Cup,_ he added silently with a scoff.

Sidney paid no mind to Flower, to the team, to the blaring screams echoing down the halls as they made their way to the ice.

It was time. 

 

He had a game to win, a cup to woo.

 

A passion to wake.

 

A hunger to sate.

 

**Author's Note:**

> * get it? 'Wrung' like the past tense of 'to _ring_ '? God I'm so smart with words!
> 
>  
> 
> * hockey stick down under: this is a euphemism for the male phallus. ** 
> 
>  
> 
> ** But also possibly a shoutout to the Australian (field) Hockey League. Go Thundersticks! ***
> 
>  
> 
> *** This is _not_ a euphemism for the male phallus. This is a legitimate Australian Hockey League team.
> 
>  
> 
> *French-Canadian laughter, probably.
> 
>  
> 
> Literally the only input ActualQuebecer!wholewheat had on this story was telling me how to spell "ouais". All other French dialogues were devised by moi.


End file.
